


Firsts

by youjik33



Category: The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (2013)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youjik33/pseuds/youjik33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a first time for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had all these ridiculous headcanons I felt like I had to get out. Eventual Walter/Sean... even more eventual Walter/Sean/Cheryl.

_Grease_ is actually pretty good, even though the church's air conditioning is apparently terrible; Act I is hot and stuffy and Act II practically takes place in an arctic tundra, and the theater is approximately 20% children way too young for it who are barely paying attention and 75% old ladies (Walter's mom invited all of her friends). The show is also more sexist than Walter had remembered, but the cast is actually pretty good, and when he hugs Odessa after the show he isn't lying when he tells her she was great, and Cheryl genuinely seems to have had a good time.

As first dates go it's definitely a success.

After the show they go out for coffee, and chat for hours, and have their first stupid argument, because it turns out Cheryl really, really hates _The Pina Colada Song_ , but after a few minutes they both start laughing and everything is great again. They actually have a lot in common; they both love black coffee and thunderstorms and watching sad movies in the dark.

"It's kind of weird, right?" Cheryl says. "I mean, it's not that I don't also love things that make me happy, and I love happy endings, but once in a while I just think 'man, I really want to have my soul completely crushed today.'"

"No, I get it," Walter says. "It makes you feel alive." 

Well, maybe it _is_ weird, but that's why their fifth date turns out to be hanging out at Cheryl's apartment eating popcorn and watching _Brokeback Mountain_. As Willie Nelson sings over the credits Cheryl blows her nose and says "Oh my god, the SHIRTS."

"Yeah," Walter manages around the lump in his throat. Chips is burrowed between his leg and the arm of the couch, and Walter scratches the top of the dog's head absently.

"Geez," Cheryl says, grabbing a new Kleenex and wiping her eyes. "Okay. I'm okay." She laughs shakily. "I bet I look really hot right now."

Walter is about to tell her that of course she does, who is she kidding -- but she really does look kind of awful, face red and blotchy. It makes him smile. 

"I love you," he says. 

He hadn't entirely meant for that to come out. She turns to stare at him with red-rimmed eyes; Chips, twitching in his sleep, kicks Walter's thigh with his back legs. Walter stares at the empty popcorn bowl on the coffee table, feeling his face grow hot. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be," she says, and he's not sure the tremble in her voice is due to the movie.

The weekend before Cheryl had drunk an entire bottle of chardonnay and sent Walter a series of rambling Facebook messages about how her failed marriage had lead her to constantly doubt the validity of her feelings. She had been incredibly embarrassed the next morning, but he'd actually kind of liked that she'd opened up to him like that, even if it hadn't exactly been under the best circumstances. But it makes him think that maybe blurting out his feelings is not the best idea. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he says.

"That's sweet, but you shouldn't worry about it. I can tell you mean it when you say it."

"Of course I do," he says. "Why would I say it, if I didn't..." He's gesturing vaguely with his hands and Chips gives a little snort of annoyance at the movement.

"Come here," Cheryl says, leaning forward and grabbing him by the shoulder, and Walter obliges, leaning in to meet her lips.

She catches him off guard, open-mouthed and hungrier than he'd expected, and he cups her cheeks in his hands and closes his eyes. She grabs the belt loop of his shorts and pulls; Walter accidentally kicks Chips as he stretches out, and the dog gives a little irritated snort and goes to sit under the coffee table.

"Hey," Cheryl says, rubbing the heel of her bare foot down the back of his leg.

"Yeah?" Walter manages despite the distraction.

"Want to stay the night?"

He pulls back, holding himself up far enough to get a good look at her (and her foot is still rubbing against his leg in long, lazy movements that make it very difficult to actually think coherently.) She's smiling, but it's not quite her usual smile – a little shyer, a little hesitant. 

"...really?" 

"Well, if you want to." 

"Yeah," he says. "I mean, that would be-- that'd be great. Yeah." He returns her smile with one of his own, lopsided and awkward, and she runs her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck and pulls him in for another kiss. 

The first time they'd made out on the couch it had been interrupted by Rich coming downstairs for a glass of water, and they'd both thrown themselves to opposite armrests and pretended to be really interested in the infomercial for Sleep Number mattresses that had come on while they weren't paying attention to the TV. (Rich had completely ignored them, but Walter was sure he knew what was going on; he was a kid, but he wasn't stupid.)

This time Rich is at his dad's for the weekend. The only one around to interrupt is Chips, but the stairs in the apartment are too steep for him to climb safely, so Cheryl keeps a baby gate at the bottom – which means he can't follow them when they go upstairs to the bedroom. Walter glances back at the dog once, sitting at the bottom of the stairs with his ears perked up and his head cocked expectantly, and feels a little twinge of guilt – but not enough to consider going back down.

Walter's never even been in Cheryl's room before. He's not sure if it's clean because it normally is or because she'd already planned on asking him to stay. In the slanted lines of street lamp coming in through the blinds he can see that she has a yellow bedspread with blue flowers, and a poster of the _Abbey Road_ album cover on the wall. 

There are like a hundred pillows on the bed, too – well, okay, more like six, but still, why does one person need so many – and Cheryl tosses half of them on the floor before they lie down. Walter feels like he could kiss her forever, soaking in that strange combination of excitement and knowing they have no reason to rush. Her hands are under his shirt, fingers stroking his hipbones over the elastic of his underwear band, when a thought occurs to him.

"Um," he says. "I don't have a condom or anything-"

"No problem," she says. "I got it."

It takes Cheryl a minute to find the box, which is shoved all the way in the back of the drawer of the nightstand. Then she helps Walter out of his shirt, stopping to rest her hand on his breastbone and feel his pounding heart. "Are you nervous?" she murmurs.

"A little," he admits. "It's, uh, it's been a while." 

"Me too," she says, and laughs, the little breathless laugh he's come to love so much.

She laughs again when she finally sinks down onto him, delightedly, the street lights painting lines across the curves of her body. She leans down to kiss him and her hair slides across Walter's collarbone and he finds himself shaking, fingers digging into her hips, coming utterly undone.

It takes a moment for the fog to clear from his head, for him to fully realize what's just happened. "Oh," he says. "Oh, my god, I'm sorry."

Cheryl goes still, tilting her head inquisitively. "Did you just..."

"Yeah," he manages. "sorry."

"It's all right," she says, kissing him again. She laughs softly as she slips off of him, burrowing her head against his neck once he's tossed the condom, but even though he doesn't seem like she's laughing at him, exactly, he still can't quite meet her eyes. 

"It's not all right," he mutters.

"It's not like we can't try again," Cheryl says, running her fingertips across his chest. "We've got all night, and that box is a twelve-pack."

Walter smiles despite himself, resting his hand on top of hers. "You have a point. But, hey, I'm gonna try something, if that's okay with you."

"What...?" she starts to ask, but when he pushes her legs apart and kneels between them, she catches on. "Yeah," she sighs as he slides his tongue into her, "This is definitely okay with me."

She still tastes vaguely of latex, but Walter doesn't really mind, especially with the way Cheryl's hands are resting on his head, urging him along. He writes the alphabet into her with his tongue, a tip he'd read in a magazine once years ago; slowly, deliberately, first uppercase capitals and then cursive, and then he signs his name. Her breath gives a hitch on the L, and on the R her fingernails dig into his scalp, so he does three more Rs until she trembles and bites back a shout. He doesn't stop until he feels her body relax.

"Kiss me," she says, and he does, a little wet, a little sloppy, but feeling incredibly pleased with himself.

"Where'd you get so good at that?" Cheryl asks.

"College, I guess," he replies, and she laughs, curling up against his side.

\------

Walter wakes to the muted white-gold of early morning daylight and a hand stroking his belly. He watches it through half-lidded eyes for a moment and then says, "I'm not a cat."

"I like your tummy hair," Cheryl says, looking down on him, propped on one elbow. She's got a baggy white t-shirt on, which he regards with some disappointment.

"You got dressed."

"I had to let Chips out," she explains. 

"Can I take you out to breakfast?" he asks impulsively.

"Sure," she says. "I could go for a morning-after omelette But right now I think I'm gonna go down on you."

"Oh," says Walter. "Okay." For a second everything is so perfect – the light and the warmth and Cheryl's smile – that he's not sure it's real. The instant Cheryl touches him he doesn't have any doubts, but he keeps his eyes open the whole time anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a dark and stormy night. Two figures moved along the cracked and pitted remains of what had once been a busy street, the only sign of life in the rubble. One was a man, dark-haired, in a leather vest, a rifle in one hand, an ax on his back, a machete at his side, a crossbow strapped to his leg and a knife in his boot, just in case. He wore sunglasses despite the lack of sunlight, and chomped manfully on a cigar.

Beside him was his trusty sidekick, a brown mutt whose front left leg clanked as he walked – a prosthetic, cobbled together from scraps of steel and wire. Man and dog climbed purposefully up an upended slab of pavement, pausing to survey their surroundings.

The man pulled the cigar out of his mouth. "Well, Chips, it's just you and me now," he said. "We might be the only ones left alive in this whole city."

Chips answered with a growl, hackles rising, and as if on cue a mass shambled from the shadows – a gibbering mob of the undead. Walter Mitty, zombie killer, spat his cigar to the ground and shouldered his rifle. "If that's how you wanna play it, boys," he growled. "I've got you _dead to rights_."

 

A paw prodding the top of his foot snaps Walter back to the present, where he's standing on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, leash in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. Chips has apparently finished his business, and is doing a sort of hop against Walter's foot with his one front paw, trying to catch his attention.

"Sorry," Walter mutters. "You probably want to get back inside, huh."

The actual night isn't stormy at all – brisk, and there's a bit of a breeze, but for late November it's actually not bad. The only thing remarkable about it at all is that it's the Friday after Thanksgiving, Walter is dog-sitting, he had leftover pumpkin pie for dinner, and instead of a rotting zombie emerging from the shadows, it's Sean O'Connell.

Walter blinks rapidly, but it's not a dream or a hallucination, even though the way Sean looks, with his wind-tousled hair and his bag slung over one shoulder, seems impossibly picturesque. "...Sean," he says, not quite turning the name into a question, though he still feels like he needs some proof that this is real.

"Hey," Sean replies with a smile. "I probably should've called you from the airport, but I wanted to surprise you."

"You definitely did that."

"Who's this?" Sean asks, stepping nearer to Chips, bending down to let the dog sniff his hand.

"Chips, he's Cheryl's. She's at her sister's for the weekend, in Poughkeepsie."

"Oh," Sean says. "That's too bad, I would've liked to have seen her. Glad I caught you, though."

Walter touches Sean's shoulder, gives it a squeeze. It's definitely really there. "You wanna come up?" he asks, throat suddenly dry.

"Of course I do."

 

Upstairs, Walter excuses himself to the bathroom, suddenly a bundle of nerves as he dashes off a text to Cheryl.

_Sean just showed up at my apartment_

_That's futuristic!_

Walter blinks at the message, not sure what to make of it, but then the phone buzzes again.

_Fantastic, wtf, autocorrect_

_What do I do???_ (The extra time it takes to find the question mark three times on the symbol menu of his flip phone is necessary, he feels, to show the true depth of his confusion.)

_Go for it, babe! = )_

_ok_

He looks at those two letters for a long time before pressing "send". They seem like a commitment. But he takes a drink of water and a deep breath and heads out of the bathroom.

Sean is sitting on the couch, enthusiastically rubbing Chips' belly and saying "Who's a good boy? _Who's a good boy?_ " It's... well, it's adorable, and kind of hard to believe that this is the same guy Walter had seen strapped to the top of a plane flying into volcanic clouds.

He settles next to Sean, clearing his throat. Sean looks up at him. Chips, still upside down, licks Walter's hand.

"Do you want to stay the night?"

Walter frowns, confused, because surely he hadn't really just said that. It hadn't been that easy. But Sean just says "Sure."

The look he's giving Walter is the same one he'd had on his face six months before, when they'd been talking about the missing photograph. _That's a shame. It was a beauty._ Walter hadn't understood it then; he isn't sure he entirely understands it now, whatever it is Sean ( _Sean O'Connell_ , who had spent last month living with llama ranchers in Peru) sees in him, but he has no doubt that Sean sees _something_. It makes him feel brave, even though his heart is pounding in his throat, brave enough to reach out and touch Sean's cheek, run his thumb across the prickle of his beard, lean in for a kiss. Sean's lips are chapped from the wind, but they're warm. When Chips wriggles off Sean's lap and leaps to the floor Walter barely notices.

"Just to be clear," Sean says, hands on Walter's shoulders, "When you're asking me to stay the night, you don't mean crashing on the couch, do you?"

"Nope."

"And Cheryl..."

"I already talked to Cheryl. Um, I think she's probably just a little sad that she isn't here too."

"Next time," Sean says, and Walter suddenly imagines it, so clearly it takes his breath away – Sean and Cheryl kissing, Sean unhooking Cheryl's bra, Cheryl straddling Sean in Walter's bed. 

"Next time," he echoes, sliding his hands under the front of Sean's shirt when he leans in for another kiss, feeling a rush of satisfaction when Sean's breath hitches and his stomach muscles tighten under Walter's fingers. He's struck all over again by how easy this all is, how touching Sean seems like the most natural thing in the world even though this is only the third time they've ever talked to each other face to face, how they could just kiss like this for ages. 

"Uh." Sean interrupted Walter's thoughts. "Do you mind if we move? We have an audience."

"Are you shy?" Walter asks, settling back on the couch with his hand brushing Sean's knee. "He's just a dog." Though Chips is staring at them pretty intently. He cocks his head, and Walter mimics the movement. "Go lie down, Chips." 

He obeys, scuttling over to where his oversized dog bed had been shoved into the corner next to the TV, and Walter gets up to get him a dog treat. 

"I'm not shy," Sean insists, voice raised over Chips' enthusiastic crunching. "But I'm not exactly an exhibitionist either."

"Bedroom then," Walter says, reaching for his hand to help Sean off the couch. 

"I get the idea," Sean says as they bump shoulders in the hall, "you think my life is a little more exciting than it actually is."

"I don't know about that," Walter says. "But I guess I did figure you for the type with a lover on every continent."

"I don't have a lover on every continent," Sean says with a laugh. "I _have had_ lovers on every continent. Not at the same time. There's a difference."

"Really?" Walter shuts the bedroom door behind them. "Even Antarctica?"

"She was a geologist," Sean says fondly. "At a research station." He sits on the bed, backs up against the wall, and Walter straddles his legs. "But I still think you're overestimating things," Sean says between kisses. "Who do you think the last person I kissed was, before tonight?"

"Who?"

" _You_ , the last time I was here."

"Really?" 

"You don't have to look so surprised," Sean says, cupping Walter's cheeks in his hands and touching their foreheads together. Even though they'd been making out for the last few minutes something about this touch seems more intimate than ever. "I love you, Walter. I've loved you for a long time." 

"I... I know." Walter sighs against Sean's mouth. "I love you too." He'd worried about that at first, after their last meeting, sent a frantic IM to Todd (because Todd was the only person he could think of who was close enough to actually talk about it with, but not so close that it'd make everything awkward). _Hey Todd, do you think it's possible for someone to be in love with two people at once?_ , it'd said, and Todd had replied _That's a pretty heavy question to throw at a guy who's just trying to watch an Iron Chef marathon._

But apparently it is possible, because Walter does love both of them, and he doesn't even have to choose. He's luckier than any man has any right to be. Sean's hands slide under Walter's sweater and up his back, big and warm and calloused, and when Walter's breath hitches Sean stops, says "You okay?"

"Yeah," Walter says, and on a whim pulls his sweater off and throws it behind him onto the floor. It's worth it for the look of surprise on Sean's face, a look that turns into a grin just before Sean leans in to put his mouth on Walter's collarbone, teeth running lightly over the ridge. Walter gasps, fingers digging into Sean's hair, and when he rocks their hips together, he realizes with a start that they're both hard. "Oh," he murmurs against the top of Sean's head. 

He moves back far enough to get his hands on the bottom of Sean's fleece shirt, and Sean, realizing what he's up to, helps him get it off. Sean isn't as hairy as Walter, and he's fit but with just the slightest bit of softness at his belly, which makes Walter smile. He touches the white scar on Sean's side where a bullet grazed him last spring, and the more faded line above it where it looks like someone tried to shank him once – he'll have to remember to ask about that, later. But Walter's a lot less nervous than he thought he'd be at this point, so he slides off of Sean's lap, gets his hands on the button of Sean's jeans. "Okay?" he asks.

"Okay," Sean replies.

"Okay," Walter says again, and then starts laughing, because he really isn't sure what he's doing any more once he gets Sean's zipper down. He'd _tried_ imagining this scenario, more than once, but never quite seemed able to get beyond the kissing. 

Maybe Sean picks up on that, because once they're both undressed he takes over, pressing their bodies together, getting his hand between them to wrap around both of them at once. All Walter can do is rock against him, gasping against Sean's open mouth, until he's shaking, slipping over the edge with Sean right behind him.  
"...wow," he manages, lying back on the mattress, flushed and sweaty. Sean doesn't seem to mind the sweat, but pulls the blankets over them. Naked spooning turns out to be even better than the spooning they'd done in that shared sleeping bag in the mountains all those months ago, even if Sean's stubble is scratchy against Walter's neck and shoulder. 

"How long are you staying?" Walter asks softly, once he feels like he can breathe again.

"Got a flight to Sydney Sunday afternoon."

"So no plans for tomorrow?"

"I was hoping you'd make them for me." 

Sean's hand is splayed over Walter's stomach, and Walter rests his on top of it. Maybe they can visit his mom; she'd like that. They can take Chips to the dog park, go out to eat, stay in drinking hot chocolate, cuddle on the couch for hours. Maybe they'll Skype Cheryl and tease her about what she's missing; maybe they'll do all of the above. 

"I'd love to," Walter says.


End file.
